


Where Do Broken Hearts Go

by ughlaska



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Artist Dean, Bisexual Dean, Bottom Dean, Charlie Ships It, Dead Sam, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Constipation, Gentle Dom Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Mechanic Dean, Multi, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Protective Castiel, Slow Build, Sub Dean, Therapist Castiel, Therapy, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7907521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ughlaska/pseuds/ughlaska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wasn't prepared for anything in his life, so far. He wasn't prepared for his mother to die from a house fire, for his father to leave without a goodbye, and especially not for his brother to wind up dead, too. After a suicide attempt landing him in (not) therapy, he also certainly wasn't prepared to fall in love with Dr. Castiel Novak along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost Boy

Of all the things Dean hates about being here, it was the air that bothered him the most. The stale air that drags through his lungs, making the back of his throat hurt and burn with annoyance. He hates the insides of his nose flaring and itching for moisture it isn't going to find. Of all the things Dean could have listed off that he despised about being here, and he did have one, the air felt like the final straw.

He sighs, breathing in the artificial air that came from tanks so processed and clean it made Dean feel sick with nostalgia. It makes him feel nauseous at the thought that he is here, of all places.

If he closes his eyes hard enough, he can almost feel the sweet breeze of fresh air whipping at his face as he speeds down the highway, the window rolled down just enough for him to rest his arm there. He can sense the summer floating around, the way the it makes everything sticky and fresh. For a second he can almost feel the rumble of his car beneath him, the way the motor growls beneath the dash as her tires spin.

If he relaxes hard enough, he can hear his brother's laughter next to him. The throaty chuckle that comes out in surprise next to him, deep, but light in a way he never understood. He can picture the crinkles that rest beside his little brother's eyes, beneath the earthy hazel that seemed to change every time you looked at him. He can see his white teeth, the way his lips folded around them and into a smile so wide it threatened to split his face in two.

It all seems so familiar, like a memory that he didn't have to reach very far to find. He could reach out his fingers just to lightly scrape it, so close, so near, but then it was gone. It was that fact that made Dean have realization that it was just another dream. It was the kind of dream that seemed so painfully real at the time, the kind that you were so certain actually happened, but when you open your eyes you find nothing but yourself and a wave of emptiness you can't place the cause of. And honestly, Dean doesn't know what's worse. The fact that it was real, or the fact that it isn't anymore.

It hadn't meant to turn out this way, but if Dean thinks about it, nothing in his life was ever really supposed to.

The problem is, he can't go back to the beginning and have it all tie in together, because the beginning doesn't make any sense, either. Nothing does, and nothing has in a while.

All Dean knows for sure is that he's lying in a hospital bed, of all places, and his eyelids are heavier than boxes on moving day. All he knows is that there's an ache in his head that feels like it's been there for ages, and it doesn't even feel like the one in his stomach. It feels like there's something pounding, scratching, breaking against his skull. It feels as if it won't ever go away, doomed to burden and weigh him down forever, and as Dean looks up at the ceiling, he thinks maybe he's right.

Damn ceiling has too many bumps on it, he thinks, and maybe he's been staring at it for longer than he'd care to admit.

The ceiling is white, the kind of white that makes anything less than pristine put to shame. However, if he looks closely, he can tell that there's some kind of leakage that has been dried up in the past. Soft yellow bleeds into the alabaster tile, and squared lights stare back at him. They flicker every so often, making a faint buzz in the quiet room, and somewhere in the back of his mind he swears somebody (probably his brother) told him not to look into fluorescent lights, for it causes damage to your eyes.

Dean doesn't care, though. He stares at the lights so long that when he looks away he sees milky spots in his vision, and he has to blink to get them to dissipate. At first it came as a shock to realize that he didn't care, because everyone always told him he cared too much. Dean had always cared with an unyielding force that made everyone exasperated and annoyed, and it's weird. It's strange now, to think that he's so different than he was back then. Dean wonders about it sometimes, and how his caring nature was like a well that ran dry. He's out of water, but he can't even bring himself to care about that.

He doesn't care that he's lying in a hospital bed in a gown that doesn't even cover his ass. He doesn't care that he's strapped down to the bed by his wrists and ankles, and can't even reach up to scratch his nose. He doesn't care that his stomach had to be pumped three days ago, and that if Benny hadn't came to check on him, he'd be dead. He doesn't care that he slept for 72 hours straight. He doesn't care about any of it.

He doesn't feel anything, even though he knows he should. He should feel something: anger, sadness, fear, anything, but he doesn't. He can't bring himself to. He just wants to sleep; sleep so much that his body caves in on itself. He doesn't have to exist anymore. It's just like he wanted to a week ago. Just like he aimed do when he blindly reached for those anti-anxiety pills his brother had, washing however many down with whiskey and a sickly, almost satisfied smile, and a sigh of bitter relief.

He doesn't care that he's alive, even if it took three shocks to the heart to accomplish, and an oxygen tube. Everyone else says it's a flat out miracle, that the doctors were about to just give up, but Dean doesn't believe in miracles. He doesn't believe in God, he definitely can't bring himself to do that.

He often has a humorless laugh at the fact that his brother believed. Oh the irony. His brother prayed everyday, and Dean never failed to make him feel like crap about it, the way he put his faith in someone who maybe didn't even care, maybe didn't even exist. He didn't mean to be so cruel about it, of course, Dean just didn't understand. Dean never understood blind faith like that, he never had the urge to comprehend a celestial being that made humanity and let so many fucked up things happen. He didn't want to believe that an all powerful being that was supposed to be so good, wonderful, and righteous, let so many bad things happen. So either God isn't real, or he simply doesn't care, and maybe it's just easier for Dean to believe the first option.

All in all, if there really was a God, and that's a big if, then Dean wouldn't mind punching him in the face. He wouldn't mind tearing into the thing that made so much suffering, and hurt, and asking why until he was blue in the face. He wouldn't mind demanding that God fix what He made, just to let break.

Dean had one person that kept him caring, that much was true. He had one person that made him want to give a fuck, want to do better, want to improve. One person that no matter what, no how stupid the fight, the bullshit they went through, Dean always had faith in the fact that they would make it through it. He believed in the bond they shared, the one that grounded each other to the universe. He believed because he saw the strength within them, the proof of it, and what did God do? He took him away.

God took took his tall, nerdy, shaggy haired little brother away. God took Sam Winchester away at the age of 26, left out on a four way stop in an expensive car he insisted on getting, amongst the busy intersection and leather seats. Dean sometimes thinks that Sam took part of Dean with him. He thinks that maybe some part of him died too, that maybe some part of Dean was left on that intersection too.

-

Observation is torture. If being hooked up on machines wasn't enough, afterwards he had to be 'observed'. He wasn't an animal in a zoo, but fuck he felt like it.

"Are you having any more suicidal thoughts?" The hospital psychiatrist asks for the third time today. Her eyes are dull, a kind of brown that sinks beneath the surface and into the bags below. A kind of brown that has seen things, that's done with them as well. It's the kind of brown that's past the point of being excited about anything, and they bore into him, as if she looks hard enough, she can see straight to his soul. She raises an eyebrow, and Dean fights to roll his eyes at the wannabe sympathy.

"Listen, lady." Dean starts with a sigh, letting it drag through him just for show of exasperation. "Yeah I tried to throw in the towel or whatever, and guess what, I ended up here? I learned my lesson." Dean finishes irritatedly. It's like he can't say it enough. It's as if no matter what he says, there's still a question of 'but did you?' Are you sure you don't still want to kill yourself?

The doctor looks at him as she closes her notebook that he's sure is blank because 1) he hasn't said anything other than 'I am fine' and 2) she probably doesn't care. Her lab coat has a stain on the collar, but is ironed so that she seemed put together, a feeble attempt at best. He glances at her name tag, at the chipped edges of the platinum. Fine lines rest on her pale skin, her cheek bones high, but sunken in just a tad. Her thin lips are glossy, a peach tint to them for a hint of color. She tucks her dark hair beneath her ear, a thin eyebrow raised at him again, and clicks her pen.

"I'm fine," Dean insists for the millionth time. He has the urge to roll his eyes again, but he doesn't. He just stares at her, and doesn't say anything as she undoes the straps around his wrists and ankles.

"No you're not, and it's okay not to be." The shrink claims as she sits back down to the backless chair she brought in, and Dean reads at her name tag for what is probably the first time. Naomi, it says, and Dean thinks that she sure as hell acts like one, whatever that means.

He doesn't even look down to his wrists as he rubs and massages the sweaty skin there. He just leans back into the lumpy pillow. "In yours, yeah maybe, but not in mine. It just causes trouble." Dean tells her, not even bothering to hide the bitter tone he has.

All she does is stare back.

-

One year and one week. That's how long it's been.

It doesn't feel that way. Death never does, Dean supposes. He's been around death, the boring funerals that make him want to sleep, the fake sympathetic looks, the hugs that make Dean smell like a thousand different people at once. He's been around people that have lost someone, the way their faces look blank at times, as if they're very far away and don't want to come back. Everyone he knows has lost someone, someone close, and Dean supposes that it was just his turn, even though it makes him feel nauseous to think of it like that.

Sure, he lost his mom when he was younger, and it took a toll on him. He remembers the way he woke up one day with a tear streaked face because he realized that he couldn't remember her what her voice sounded like. He remembers having dreams of flames, and eventually getting used to the fact that fire was just something he was going to hate forever. He remembers when they stopped, and how his dad was never the same, and how the road became his home. He remembers losing his mom, but he never remembers having her.

It's different this time, with Sam. He feels like he's on autopilot, now. With Sam gone, everything feels wrong; the air around him too thick, and his skin never fails to feel like something is crawling underneath it. His chest feels heavy, a rock that he can't pinpoint somewhere inside him, his limbs feeling like foreign objects.

He hasn't slept, really slept, since he got the news that it happened. He doesn't actually know the last time he's gone to bed without nursing a bottle of whiskey beforehand. He can't physically remember the last time he's had a night without a dream about the knock on the door and a police officer with no face.

If it wasn't a bad enough to have it constantly on his mind during the day, replaying the news over and over until all the details blur together, it haunts him when he's asleep. It haunts him until he's drenched in cold sweat and can't go to sleep without Metallica playing in the background at an ungodly volume that makes his apartment neighbors file complaints.

He still remembers it like it was yesterday, and Dean hasn't really felt alive since.

He remembers the knock on the door. It pounded against the wood like a heartbeat, and Dean can't even hear a similar sound without slipping back to that moment, the moment where everything changed in less than thirty seconds.

He opened the door in annoyance. He was almost certain it was that insurance company that was most definitely not an insurance company again. Didn't they get the message last time when Dean slammed the door in their face?

He groaned. It was times like this he was disappointed that he didn't have a peephole or a window or something. It was always a surprise who was there.

He hadn't expected this.

But really, who does?

When he opened the door, an officer that hovered above him a few inches looked at him grimly. "Are you Dean Winchester?" He asked, almost on the brink of coldly, like he'd rather be doing anything but standing at the door to Dean's apartment.

"Yeah, why?" Dean said, keeping his hand on the door just in case he had to close it abruptly.

"May I come in?" The officer asked tightly, his brow furrowing just slightly.

"Not until you tell me why you're here, officer." Dean told him with a curt nod and a small smile. He wanted to be polite, but even police were crazy sometimes. Dean wasn't dumb. His dad kind of drilled that into his brain, after all.

The officer looked down and Dean could see his throat move as he gulped. It rippled through him, and Dean could feel his patience thin.

What the fuck was this guys problem?

"I'm very sorry, but there's been an accident concerning your brother, Samuel. You're the first in his emergency contact-," the officer began, gruffly and hastily.

"What happened?" Dean asked with wide eyes before he could get any farther. "What hospital is he at?"

The officer looked at him sternly as Dean reached for his keys in his pocket.

"He's not at a hospital, Mr. Winchester, he-,"

"What the hell do you mean he's not at the hospital?" Dean yelled, his grip on the door getting almost painfully tight. He could feel his heart pound in his ears, thumping so fast it felt like it may never slow down.

A million thoughts ran through his head, all racing and none of them seeming right. Was he in jail? No, Sam wouldn't do anything to get arrested. He was a lawyer who wouldn't even kill bugs. Kidnapping? Fuck no, Sam knew more self defense than most police. Other possibilities seemed to run together, but they were all way too out there to even make sense to himself.

The last thought ran through his head as the officer opened his mouth to speak again. It made something sink in Dean's stomach, like a rock that had finally made it's way to the bottom of the ocean.

"I'm very sorry for your loss." The officer told him.

He doesn't really remember the officers words after that. Something about a ran red light by another driver. Something about presumed dead on arrival. Something about a quick death. Something about-

He slammed the door, that's all he could think to do. He couldn't breathe, everything was blurry, each breath getting caught in his throat but never releasing. All he could think about was Sam at that intersection. His face as he listened to the radio shows that Dean hated. He thought about his thumbs drumming in the steering wheel like they always said. He thought about how the light turned green. He thought about-

No. That was Dean's next thought. The officer was lying, and this was a stupid prank. He didn't even look like a real officer. He probably was practicing for Halloween or something. It was a cruel joke in the middle of July. Maybe he was a LARPer or some shit. He did that with Charlie on the weekends sometimes.

He fished out his phone, fingers trembling so hard he almost dropped it. His breathing was ragged as he looked through his contact favorites. There was only one: Sammy.

The picture of Sam popped up on the screen. His head was resting on the edge of the passenger seat door. The seatbelt looked like it was choking him, but drool still waged at the corners of his mouth. Dean remembers his chuckle as he shoved the plastic spoon in his mouth, how the click of the shutter sounded, how it woke him up.

The phone began to ring, depressingly and slower than usual. He chewed the inside of his lip until he could taste copper. The pain shocked through him, but somehow it kept him grounded, a reminder that he was on earth and not in some twisted nightmare. It kept ringing until the voicemail, Sam's voice ringing through his ears.

Hey it's Sam, sorry I can't get to the phone right now- yeah cause he's being a bitch - shut up you jerk, anyway leave a message at the beep!

He touched the dial button again, furiously so. Sam would pick up the phone and they would laugh about the officer's pathetic attempt at telling him that lie. Sam would come home, and they would have a beer and Dean would ask if there was any pecan pie at the grocery store. It would all be okay. They would play Mario Kart because Dean definitely wanted a rematch from last time. Sam would be okay, he had to be.

It was voicemail again; the same one that Dean had listened to a thousand times before.

It was voicemail every time.

-

People don't tell you what it's like to bury your sibling. That's not on the list of things you have to prepare for as you get older. Sure, age happens and your parents end up in the ground, but that's almost a natural order, people who are older die first. No one says that things like this really do happen.

No one told Dean that'd he'd be the one burying Sam, that his overgrown body would be the one sinking into itself first. No one said anything about the fact that his younger, 26 year old brother would be the one to go first, his eyes that were once so bright, closed and hollow.

He doesn't really remember the next couple of days, all he knew was that it wasn't real. Sam wasn't dead, he was just gone, but he would come back.

Sam always came back, that much was true. Even when he left for Stanford years ago, with barely any goodbye, he came back. He came back for Dean when he realized he was alone. He came back for Dean, even when Dean didn't think he would.

Dean remembers the day his dad took off. The way the sun shone weirdly, how clouds were there, but somehow made things brighter than usual. He remembers rubbing his eyes groggily, his robe warm and comforting, and how he just woke up with a note on the table with the words Stay safe, son – Dad and the keys to his beloved car. He remembers how confused he was, scrunching up his eyebrows and reading the note over and over, the way the automated voicemail sounded in his ear until it sounded like one jumbled up word. He remembers being so angry, so defeated, and so numbly confused, that he didn't realize he had dialed the number that he knew by heart.

He remembers feeling even more confused at the fact that his brother picked up the phone. He was shocked, and his voice cracked on the word, "Sammy?"

He remembers fumbling with himself to get the words out, and the confusion that seared through him so much that he forgot how much anger and bitterness he was feeling. He can remember Sam's shocked demeanor, and how cold the words he said came out. Sam's voice had changed with age, not like the higher pitched one he had grown so used to al those years ago. It wasn't deep, but sounded like a man. He remembers Sam saying that he was booking a plane and fear shooting through Dean as he said that. He remembers the next day when Dean was certain it was all just a bad dream, and how the sight of his younger brother brought him back to reality.

Sam was different, but so much the same. His hair had grown from it's once shaggy and awkward length, to messy and long enough to almost touch his shoulders. His face was sharper, the once youthful demeanor he had, was jaded. He wasn't the snot nosed kid that Dean bossed around, he was a grown up.

The conversation was awkward at first. He remembers Sam running his fingers through his hair multiple times, and Dean clearing his throat when there wasn't a reason to. By the time the night rolled in, the dusk rolling through the blinds, Sam had apologized at least three times.

He had left, it was a simple as that. He packed his stuff in a suitcase and hitched a ride to California. It was years ago, when Dean had a unwavering faithfulness to his father, and Sam needed to leave. He needed to escape the broken household that had imprisoned him and his brother for years. He needed to find something else, something without John hovering over them, without the conspiracy theories, and the military way of living that was barely existence.

His voice cracked as he said it, and Dean can still remember the way he looked at his hands, as if they were the only thing keeping him from slipping back to that moment. It was the best night of Sam's life, like he could finally breathe, like the air wasn't constricting him, like the words and voices in his head had let him go. He remembers feeling so free as he wakes down the road, the summer air whistling through the trees. He was happy.

It was the exact opposite for Dean. Waking up, rolling over on his bed and seeing the sheets from Sam's bed made up and neat as could be. He remembers hearing the voices the night before, the fighting he thought was just another bicker between the youngest Winchester and their father. But it wasn't, Sam was gone, and John's words rang in dean's head: "if you wanna leave, then go, but don't come back." And Sam did, he left.

Dean remembers the next few years, and the way him and John just didn't talk about it. It was like some sort of non-agreement they had worked out. They didn't talk about Sammy, and they didn't go after Sammy. Dean remembers a few nights where he would grab his dad's car keys and drive there, to Stanford, when they were staying in a hotel within 100 miles. He remembers sitting there, waiting to see Sam again, but never seeing him, always driving back with the music too loud and alcohol in his system somewhere along the line.

Sam always came back, it may have took him longer than Dean wanted, but he did come back.

Except for this time.

-

"Hey," was Bobby's first word when Dean came to. His kind eyes had swept over Dean's body, surveying the damage as he laid in the hospital bed.

If you didn't know Dean, then you couldn't see it, he would have looked so normal it hurt. You wouldn't be able to tell that his scruff had gotten long enough to form a mild beard, and that Dean never let it get to that point. You would see that his knuckles that were usually smooth, were bruised up slightly, scabs lingering on various parts of his hands. You wouldn't notice how his cheekbones dipped in just slightly, and that his arms had gotten thinner than usual. Not to mention his eyes, their usual twinkle in fields of green that shown, were dull to the point of almost lifeless. If you hadn't known Dean, you wouldn't be able to tell that something was wrong, and even then, you had to look.

"Hey, Bobby. How ya doing?" Dean asks, his voice cracking a bit. He turns up the corners of his chapped lips in a soft smile.

Bobby just stares at Dean, his brown eyes grazing over Dean's injured body, the crows feet at his eyes resting softly in the corners. Bobby smiles softly, so tiny it was hard to see the way his beard moved.

"I should be asking you that, boy. I haven't been here, and..." Bobby trails off, looking down at the shiny, tile floor.

Dean nods even though his uncle can't see. He eyes the man in front of him, the way his jeans were torn and frayed in some places, how his old boots had dry dirt on the edges. He looks at how the baseball cap he wore was coincidentally the one Dean bought him when he was ten. He was Bobby, and Dean was Dean, but somehow things felt different, strange even. Everything was unspoken, the silence almost defeating, but Dean could see the wheels turning in bobby's brain. Bobby could see the way Dean was feeling from the way he looked:

Broken.

Dean was broken and no one knew, shattered to the point of no return, and no one noticed. No one realized that behind closed doors, he hadn't slept in ages, that behind the cup of extra strong coffee, he had a nightmare so bad he barely could get out of bed. No one noticed the slip of his jokes, sarcasm so thick it was true. No one could tell, and what was Bobby supposed to say now? What was Dean supposed to say? What was anyone supposed to say? How were they supposed move on after they realized Dean was painfully damaged?

"You know, when your daddy left, Sam was there." Bobby starts off, his gruff voice muffled slightly. "He knew you better than anyone, even then. You two were conjoined at the hip when you were young, I swear. And now, he's gone... And I don't know what to say, I don't know how to help the only son I have left."

It took a while for Dean to realize that Bobby was fighting off tears. He stared, feeling the tension in the white room bleed into him. He just looked at the man before him, how much he had aged, and how much he didn't. He was the same as Dean had always known, but Dean was different, painfully so. Dean wasn't the boy that played catch in the park with Bobby anymore. Dean had grown up, been shoved into a reality that he didn't know how to comeback from, or if he even could.

"I'm sorry." Dean finally chokes out. It sounds so loud in the empty room, everything so silent and dull. Even the machines seemed to get softer, and Dean didn't know what else to say. That was all he knew how to say, because what else was there? He doesn't elaborate, but Bobby doesn't ask him to. Bobby doesn't ask for an explanation, he just nods, and whispers in a voice so soft Dean wasn't sure he heard him right, "Me too."

-

Bobby's couch is lumpy, and it reminds Dean of many nights when he collapsed there too drunk to go home in his teenage years. He remembers falling asleep next to Sam after watching movies. He remembers fighting over the popcorn, and Dean insisting that black licorice was a necessity, and Sam rolling his eyes and saying that it tasted like if death was a food.

He has so many memories on that couch, the one with the plaid pattern and stuffing falling out. He wants to scream that he's back here, of all places, back at Bobby's at the age of thirty, and so empty it hurts.

He's grateful of course, that Bobby took him underneath his wing, once again. He's thankful that Bobby is making up the bed for Dean in the upstairs spare bedroom. He's grateful that Ellen is cooking dinner for them, but at the same time he just wants to crawl in a hole.

Oh, Sammy, if you could see me now, Dean thinks bitterly.

He wants to think that Sam would laugh and make fun of him for his shitty decisions, but it's the opposite. Dean knows that Sam would practically drag Dean to Ellen and Bobby's if he were here, and insist that he talk about his feelings and start to heal.

Dean knows that Sam would try his hardest to help him, and maybe that's why he feels so damn guilty. He doesn't want to try. He doesn't want to heal, or talk, or move on. He wants to sit and drink away everything, and forget everything, and wish with all his heart that he could go back to that day and ask Sam to just wait five more minutes to leave for the store. He wants to go back and say, you know what? Cake is fine. He wants to kill the driver that ran the red light and swerved too late. He wants to prevent the 'instant death' of the moment when his brother's body crushed in on itself behind a car going sixty miles an hour. He wants his little brother back, he wants Sammy back and he's not going to get him back.

He's never going to get Sammy back, with his shaggy hair, hunched shoulders, and puppy dog eyes. He's never going to make more memories with his moose of a brother, and he's never going to get to apologize for what is another fight he was so certain they would get past.

Dean wishes it was him instead of Sam, because that's what he deserves. Dean deserves to be the one I the ground, not Sam. Not Sam with a budding romance, not Sam with the career and future, not Sam with the goals and ambition, not Sam with the everything Dean is not: whole.

Dean lays down on the couch, and closes his eyes. There's a buzzing in his head that he wish would go away, and his heart is racing. He's angry, so angry, and all he can think of to do is sleep, because his head is pounding so much and maybe, just maybe he can go back to a simpler time.

A time where Sam was alive.

 


	2. Purgatory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, guys so im finally posting the second chapter! i actually haven't started writing the 3rd, but I have a three-day weekend so hopefully I'll do some writing and have it up by next week. anyway, i hope you enjoy (:

Chapter Two:

"In my senior year at college, I had a professor who told me that eyes are windows to the soul. She said, that if you looked close enough, you could see an entire universe inside them, a universe only belonging to them. And that's what I want you to remember. Every time you look at a new person, remember not their scars, or their face, but remember their eyes, and what you felt when you looked into them."

The room goes silent as Castiel finishes, letting out a huff of his breath. He could practically feel every college student taking in the applicable and jumbled up words that Dr. Novak had been telling them for the past 45 minutes. He hadn't prepared a speech for this class, the class with so many people in the confined space, that those in the back without a seat, had to stand with their clipboards against the wall to write with, because he didn't really think too many would come. He hadn't expected their twenty-something aged faces to look so intrigued, alive with a thirst for knowledge of what Castiel was speaking. He hadn't expected everyone to look so familiar in a way that haunted him with slight nostalgia. He could feel himself flashing back to himself sitting in this exact room, remembering the way he sat as far back in the classroom as possible, and constantly sharpened his pencils so that they had a perfect point to them. They all looked so youthful, yet so far from innocent, and knew without asking that everyone had a specific reason why they were researching this subject, one mocked as unreliable and false, by the typical medical field. He knew that each person sitting in the room, including himself, decided to go to school for psychology for reasons much greater than themselves. He, however, didn't expect them to be so much like him. He didn't expect to see so much himself when he looked at them.

He knows that each of them will embark on their own journey to get to where they want to be; to spend the years and trials and errors to study the one thing that that no one can make sense of, yet: the human mind. Castiel has spent for what seems like forever, getting to where he is now. He remembers nights complete of an empty wallet, crossing the streets to read underneath a street light, because he was borderline homeless, and just wanting to get it on with it, whatever that meant back then. He wanted to be successful back then, not just knowledgeable, and finally, finally he is. He's Dr. Castiel Novak with a Psy.D in psychology, and comprehension in multiple other things, and yet something is still missing, though sometimes he doesn't want to admit it to even himself.

It's weird to have everything you need, everything you've wanted for so long, and yet end up feeling so empty at the end of the day.

He smiles weakly at the class, not bothering to flash his teeth, and quickly notices how some of them even smile back. He realizes that he hasn't even checked the clock, the one that hangs on the wall far too low, and clicks and clacks at an odd pitch. Gratification swells with him with the realization that the day surprisingly went by fast, and for that Castiel was grateful. Ironic as it was, Castiel often felt emotionally drained at being within the company of so many people at once, and often needed time to replenish. He supposes that it takes a special kind of person to teach for a living, an optimistic almost naive person, and he doesn't know if he's grateful or disappointed he's not like that.

"That's all for today," Castiel says running his hands through his already messy hair. He idly wonders if someone profiled that he does that when he gets nervous. He's sure someone probably has, his brother was good at teaching, and even in the beginning of the school year, he was certain they had learned how to notice a tell like that. "Thank you for coming, everyone. If anyone has any questions, feel free to stay after, as I will be here until 6pm."

He sees a few nods as he says this, and multiple furrowed brows, people probably wondering if their questions were worth inviting themselves into Castiel's time. In all truth, Castiel just wants to get home and leave the confined space of the classroom in which he had been in far too much this week. He's definitely decided that he's not ever being a guest speaker again. He'll make sure to complain to Gabriel so maybe, just maybe he'll get the hint that Castiel is a doctor, not a teacher.

Not that he didn't think that the students didn't learn anything today, but his intensity often came off as somewhat intimidating. Yes, he did have a vast majority of knowledge about the human brain, behavioral analysis, sociology, and psychology, but that in no way meant that was completely socially adept to take on the role of a teacher. He was a writer, a past therapist, and an introvert; not anything fit for a teacher. Even the therapist gig had crashed and burned. He is sort of in between careers at the moment, he supposes.

"Mr. Novak?" A sharp voice comes behind him as Castiel's back is turned towards the chalkboard. He's always been wondering why chalkboards were so hard to clean, and at this the moment he realizes the reasoning behind it, was obviously just to be annoying.

"Yes?" He turns around quickly, probably scaring the girl in front of him a bit.

The fact that she's shorter than him is the first thing he notices, and that was to put it lightly. She was petite, with jeans and sneakers compared to everyone else's fancier attire. He quickly realizes that she wasn't a suck up, as almost everyone wore something more elegant. She was assertive with her voice, so she definitely wasn't shy. Even with her limited stature, her presence was anything but small.

"Uh, it's Dr. Novak, technically, but yes?" Castiel responds, mentally punching Gabriel. He was quite certain that Gabriel had addressed him with Mr. purposely to annoy Castiel.

"Hi, my name's Jo Harvelle. This is my second semester in Gabriel's class. I read your book on the study of addiction related to biological makeup. Gabriel actually assigned it as extra, but I figured what the hell, yanno?" Jo pauses, her eyebrow raised, as if she was expecting an answer, rhetorical question or not. Her arms cross around her mid section, one hand holding a black, leather journal. "Anyway, on your description it said that you are a practicing psychologist, and I was wondering if you had gotten a referral about a person in line for analysis, or whatever you guys call it. We were told you would be the one doing it."

Her words are sharp, and Castiel's head tilts. He hadn't gotten one, right? Sure, sometimes he slacks on reading his emails, but if there was an emergency someone would have called, right? Not to mention the number of psychiatric hospitals in the area, right? It's always at this point that he mentally rolls his eyes and punches himself for his tendency to constantly second guess himself. He's always said that he figured that by now, he would have grown out of it, but obviously not. He's pushing 35, and it's unfortunately engraved into his brain.

"Who is it you're speaking of? If I'm being honest, I don't think I have gotten the referral yet. I know it must be frustrating." He tells her, probably failing slightly to give off the empathetic vibe. "All the practicing psychiatrists and psychologists in this area, are unfortunately lacking in various departments." Castiel finishes bitterly.

He's not mad, exactly, but he's definitely frustrated. For such a populated area he would have thought that they would be more sufficient with getting people help, but apparently not. Funding by the state for medical purposes had been getting smaller, and smaller. Many of his friends and a few relatives were taking a number of job cuts due to the loss of income. Not to mention the corrupt issue with Dick Roman, last year. It caused ripple affects throughout the nation. Castiel had his fair share of issues due to that particular complication.

"The name's Dean Winchester." Jo says, somewhat hesitantly, biting her bottom lip.

Castiel raises an eyebrow as he scribbles down the name on a sticky note. "What's their diagnosis?"

"Well, that's the thing. He kinda refuses to go and get an appointment because of financial issues, not to mention he's stubborn." Jo rolls her eyes and lets out a slight huff of her breath as she finishes.

"What sort of financial issues?" Castiel asks, slightly confused. Usually, if there was an issue with insurance or payment, there were programs for that sort of thing. Now, however, things might be a bit more complicated, but surely there were ways, right?

"It's a long story." Jo says. "I'm sure you're incredibly busy, and-,"

Castiel cuts her off with a wave of his hand, watching as she nibbles on her bottom lip.

"It's okay, Jo, right?" Jo nods. "Tell you what, come to my office tomorrow and we can discuss it, then."

Jo's grateful smile wasn't in her mouth as much as it was in her eyes.

-

"I'm confused, Clarence. You're not even a practicing psychologist. That book was written years ago." Meg says as she practically chokes on her beer.

"Yes, Meg. I get that." Castiel responds, almost failing to not roll his eyes.

"You get that you took a 'paid leave' to research the similarities between honeybees and humans, and no one in the office but me and Charlie has heard from you since?" Meg remarks, her eyebrow raised so far up that it threatened to become part of her hairline.

"Yes, Meg, I understand that." Castiel retorts, almost bitterly.

"Then, you're fully aware that you're having what most would call a Midlife Crisis." Meg says with a shrug, reaching for another slice of pizza.

"We have already decided that I am not having a 'Midlife Crisis', thank you very much." Castiel grumbles, crossing his legs underneath him.

"Nope!" Meg challenges with a wave of her hand. "Actually, you decided that you're not having a Midlife Crisis. Y'know that denial is the first step to acceptance." Meg smirks, somewhat lopsidedly with a mouth full of pizza (that has pineapple and pepperoni of all things).

"I'm formally aware of the Five Stages of Grief, Meg. You're not the only one in the room with a degree in psychology." Castiel interjects as she begins to try and prove her point, yet again. His tone drips with annoyance, and this time he does roll his eyes.

"I know, but I am the only one who spent the most time in an actual classroom." Meg says, wiping off pizza sauce off her mouth with her shirt.

When did Pizza and Beer night become Slob and Debate night?

"Millions of people get degrees online, it does make the education any less valid." Castiel shoots back, taking a swig of his beer.

"Yeah, yeah." Meg says, muting the tv. "But seriously, you said, and I quote, 'I am leaving indefinitely'," She mocks, lowering her voice for emphasis. "So what changed your mind?"

"Boredom?" Castiel answers with a light shrug.

Meg rolls her eyes. "So what's the patient's name? Anyone already in the system?" Meg asks, turning to him and crossing her sweatpants covered legs.

"I am in fact not permitted to tell you because of-,"

"Act 160 through 164 of HIPAA, yeah I know." Meg mutters with an eye roll. "Who am I gonna tell, though? Remember that rant I went on about that schizophrenic 7 year old that insists he is the Antichrist?"

"Yes, unfortunately, I do." Castiel grumbles. "I very clearly remember those 20 minutes of my life that I will ever get back."

"See? That's what friends are for. To rant about the frustrating mental cases we deal with on a daily basis." Meg confirms, raising her beer.

"You, of all people, know that is an offensive term, Therapist Masters." Castiel sneers, a chuckle slipping out of his mouth.

Even after all these years, it was still surprising to him that Meg was a therapist.

"Shut up, Clarence." Meg laughs, tucking her curly brown hair beneath her stretched ears.

"His name is Dean Winchester." Castiel tells her, giving in with a slight sigh. "He was in the ICU about a month ago because of a suicide attempt. Xanax and whiskey."

Meg whistles lowly. "Damn."

"Yes, he's very fortunate to be alive. According to his cousin he went into cardiac arrest, and even slipped into coma for a few days." Castiel says thoughtfully. He hasn't even met the man, but he was positive that his estranged mother would call it a 'miracle' for him to be alive.

"Did they send him over to Psych afterwards?" Meg asks.

"No, according to his cousin, he is a very skilled liar. No one even knew he was suicidal or depressed, supposedly." Castiel responds with a sigh.

"Who evaluated him? Did they figure out why he attempted?"

"Naomi evaluated him. She said there were times where he had vivid hallucinations about his dead brother, and missing father. They went away, and he doesn't remember having them. He knows who found him, but he probably blacked out. Most of what he remembers, he's been told about." Castiel tells Meg, taking another sip of his beer.

"And they're not putting him into therapy?" Meg questions.

"His cousin, Jo, she's taking Gabriel's behavioral analysis class, said that the insurance company he has, dropped off all psych benefits. All of the psychologists that will take his case are very expensive, and will only see him sparingly. Meds are out of the question, too."

"Fucking hell. I knew it had gotten bad, after the Dick with a capital D, and all, but seriously?" Meg grumbles. "Even Charlie is taking a pay cut. She's waiting tables, at an all night diner on 4th during the weekends now."

Castiel sighs. The Roman Movement was supposed to be a good thing. Practically everyone in the medical or psychiatric practice had signed for a yes, even him. Better benefits for workers, and less cost for patients. Unfortunately, it was all at a big price that no one was informed about, and it all crashed and burned to the point of no return. No one really knows the cause of why it failed so disastrously, not to mention the money that was being hidden and stashed away, it was all presumed a mystery that left everyone scrambling. Now, doctoral companies of all sorts were closing left and right. No one really knows where the money went, or the true meaning of the corrupt Roman Movement. No one knows even where Dick is, either. It was all a pile of shit that's being covered up by the government now, and everyone in the practice is getting thrown under the bus too fast to recover from it.

"Isn't Charlie someone who helped take Dick down, though?" Castiel asks, taking a slice of veggie delight pizza.

"Yep." Meg sighs, turning the television off. "Apparently, they don't take that shit into consideration, anymore."

Castiel sighs.

"How's your department going?" Castiel asks for a subject change. He knows how important Charlie was to Meg, even if she wouldn't admit it at times. The stubborn girl was hopelessly in love.

"Oh, you mean the Children and Adolescent Residential Unit at Roman General?" Meg asks, a far too wide and comical smile on her delicate features.

"Yes, Meg. That unit." Castiel replies a bit sassily.

"Well, for starters, many of the patients aren't getting the meds they need. A lot of them aren't improving in the time slot that was been assigned. The largest one was 18 months and less than 5% of them got that. They're talking about shipping half of them to State."

Castiel cringes visibly. He can't m believe that awful place was still allowed to function.

"How many patients is that?" Castiel asks hesitantly.

"Too many."

-

"Fuck no. A million times, fuck no."

"Dean, he isn't a shrink. He's a psychologist, and you need to talk about it, you know that S-," Jo cuts herself off, her green eyes going soft as Dean visibly flinches.

She doesn't finish the sentence, and Dean is grateful for that. Anyone else would have, they would have gone on and on about how this is what Sam would have wanted, and how he wouldn't want you to feel like this. They would have ignored the way Dean clenches and unclenches his fist, the way his eyes turn glossy and hard, and would have pressed on. Jo doesn't, though. Dean likes to think it's because she knows. She knows Dean, maybe she sees through his act, and maybe he just likes to think that he doesn't have to say this part.

The part of reality, that is. The part of how the sentence does go, and how it just serves as a reminder of the truth. Sam is not here, he's in the ground. His lifeless body is becoming one with the world he fought to protect. He's in a pine box; the same color as his hair used to be, his eyes sunken in and lifeless, his broken bones he had crushed underneath themselves decaying away, and he would never be able to heal them. His body wasn't able to repair this time, and Dean couldn't forgive himself.

Dean wants to blame a million things. He wants to blame the road, and how the asphalt was slicker than usual from the soft rain the seemed to pour from the sky for days. He wants to blame the driver, and the stupid reason he crossed through the intersection at 12:03pm. He wants to say that the construction downtown was a reason. He wants to blame the way the stoplight seemed to turn so quickly, how the change from red to green was almost instantaneous. He wants to blame so many fucking things, but they all seem too coincidental. Things that no one could have changed, things that were happening because the universe was so fucked up.

Except one.

He could have changed the way Sam went out to get Dean pie. Could he have changed his love of pie, probably not, but if he hadn't insisted on it, then Sam would still be alive. Sam wouldn't have been at that intersection, at that stoplight, the same time as the speeding driver trying to get to home for whatever fucking reason. He could have said that 'no cake is fine, everybody likes cake', through gritted teeth. It wasn't like pie was completely necessary (even though it kind of was), and then Sam would still be alive, probably right next to him and complaining about work.

The fact is, he can't blame pie, either. You can't blame an inanimate object for something so huge. He wants to, god, he wants to. But that would be the stupidest thing he's ever done, and he's done a lot of stupid shit.

And he knows, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that Sam would not want Dean to blame himself. But it is his fault. If Dean would have made another decision, Sam would be here, and that's something that is factual, and it is dean's fault.

So he blames himself, just like with every other thing in the world, and Jo looks at him like she's pleading the fifth, but whatever.

He's not going to see a shrink.

-

"Okay, listen." Jo says, turning her small bodied frame towards Dean. The tv is on, and the game is playing, but Dean is only halfway paying attention. Apparently, Jo is in the same predicament.

"Hmm?" Dean asks. He cocks his head up to see her, and her eyebrow is furrowed like it always is when she's contemplating something, and Dean already knows what it is.

It's been a few days since Jo suggested he go see this douchebag and talk about his feelings, and every now and then, Jo drops another hint. She mutters something about her psychology class, and the behavioral analysis one she is taking, and how she's learning about things, and then she brings up him. How he volunteered to have Dean come in for a few sessions, with no extra cost, how he's really intelligent (she then proceeds to talk about this damn book that he wrote), and is understanding.

Dean tries not to acknowledge it, and he does 75% of the time, but sometimes he wonders. He doesn't want to go, and a big part of him insists that it's stupid. Therapy and popping happy pills doesn't make the shit go away, and it won't help him. He repeats his dad's words, how the Winchester's don't need all that bullshit. He thinks What Would Sam Winchester Do, and he knows that Sam would practically force him into it. Sam would make his famous puppy eyes, and Dean would give in. He always gave in, and that's what makes Dean so mad. He knows Sam would want this, and he knows his dad wouldn't, and his own voice inside his head is drowned out by the sound of their arguing.

"If you go five times, and don't like it, then I won't mention it ever again." Jo blurts out, everything sounding rushed and Dean knows it's been on her mind ever since their last conversation.

"Yeah, and what do I get out of it, kid?" Dean says, turning back to the tv. He's completely lost on the play, all he knows is that there hasn't been a touchdown on the team he was betting on, and that the announcer has a really annoying voice, but maybe seeming busy would make her drop the subject. You never know, she may shit up. (Expect that he does know that she is as stubborn as she is talkative.)

"I'll buy you a pie for every real complaint you make?" Jo muses, and Dean huffs a bitter laugh.

A year ago he would have loved that offer. He would have taken it in a heartbeat. Now, it's so bitterly different. He can't think of pie without feeling sick, and he can't put into his mouth without feeling like his insides are going to make an appearance on the floor. He didn't think he'd ever see the day where pie was a bad thing, but it is now, and he hates it and himself.

"I don't really enjoy pie anymore," Dean mumbles, and the words taste bitter in his mouth. He does love pie, he's always loved pie, and now his body can't make himself love it again, and he doesn't know what to do.

"Well, what do you want?" Jo asks him.

Dean sighs. What does he want? Material objects, he could ask for a lot of stuff. He could get those new to windshield wipers he's been wanting for Baby, but he could buy those himself. He just hasn't got around to it. Not that he really drives her anymore, walking and taking the bus everywhere for whatever reason that he doesn't want to admit.

He could ask for other things. Premium subscription to BustyAsianBeauties.com, new boots, a few more t-shirts, maybe some more records. He could ask for all of hose things, but none of them seemed right.

"If I go and stop, you have to promise me that you'll tell Ellen and Bobby I'm still going, 'kay?" Dean raises an eyebrow. He can hear almost hear Jo's internal sigh, and he doesn't have to look at her to know that she's chewing on her bottom lip.

"So basically, if anybody asks, I'm getting help and whatnot, and I'm doin' fine." Dean confirms, letting the words fall out easily.

Jo doesn't hesitate. She reaches out her hand, and says, "Deal," and tells him that his that his 'not-appointment' is on Tuesday and she'll be taking him so he doesn't skip.

Dean nods, and they turn up the volume on the tv, but the two of them don't really pay attention to it, either.

-

Monday goes by slowly and quickly all at the same time, and Dean feels unusually jumpy. He wants to go to work, anything to preoccupy his hands, but he can't. He's still on blood thinners to make sure he doesn't get a clogged artery, and his body still isn't up to speed, and he can feel it. He can feel how his body isn't there yet, and Dean wonders if it ever will be, or if the aching and groaning is just in his head. He feels drunk without the alcohol, and he hates it. He supposed he hates a lot of things, nowadays.

He spent two weeks in the hospital, with nurses and doctor's poking and prodding at him every chance he got. He spent most of his time lying in bed, except for when the physical therapist came in and made him walk up and down the hallways, and his body just feels so heavy now. He doesn't know if it's the fact that he almost died, or that he spent three days asleep, or what, but he hates it. He doesn't want to exactly be breathing, but if this is the consequence of trying to end his life, he's never doing it again. Or at least he should be more thorough next time.

When he wakes up on Tuesday morning from a nightmare that he doesn't remember the details of, he's drenched in cold sweat, and the windows are streaming with brightness. He rolls over, feeling his body practically bury into itself, and the mattress is old and creaky, but it's perfect right now. He lets his head fall directly into the worn out pillow, and he vaguely wonders how hard it is to suffocate yourself.

He doesn't get the chance however, because Jo is knocking on the door, saying it's noon and that dean's appointment is in thirty minutes. She tells him she'll drag him out of there if he's not up soon, and Dean groans into his pillow.

He wants to stay in bed, he wants to lie in this bed until the world freezes over, and he's just mesh in a bundle of blankets. But he can't, no one can, because even though he hates it, the world keeps moving on, with or without him. And maybe he's kind of mad that it has to involve him in the 'with' category.

-

The ride into the heart of the city isn't bad. The sunlight radiates against his cold body, and he leans his head against the window of the bus. It's loud, with a couple of five year olds whining about something Dean doesn't care about, and a few women on their bluetooths. He drowns out the sound of everything, and focuses on the rumble of bus. It reminds him vaguely of the rumble beneath Baby's black exterior, and he hazily cracks a smile. He's sure the windows have a million types of germs on them, and that he probably looks like a pathetic girl in a sad romance movie, but he doesn't care. He shuts his eyes, and somewhere far away, he's sure he can hear Sam's laughter beside him.

When Jo slaps his shoulder to tell him they're here, he rolls his eyes. He wasn't really asleep, but he felt good. Somewhere between the liveliness of the world, and the endless amount of depth of sleep. He found an in between, and he never wanted to leave.

"C'mon, Dean." Jo says, and Dean grumbles, but complies, following her out of the polluting bus that stinks strongly of gas and exhaust.

When Dean steps out, he realizes he's almost certain that he hasn't been in this part of the city before. It resembles something between a neighborhood, and a business block. Things, places, and people are stuck in weird corners, and Dean makes a hmph sound in the back of his throat.

"Dr. Novak said that he's in the yellow house." Jo murmurs, and Dean raises an eyebrow. Who the fuck paints a house yellow?

They walk in almost silence as Jo looks at the address on her phone, and Dean is looking at anything and everything. It's not loud, but it definitely has character. Small and bunched up trees, bushes, and flowers linger and sway in the crisp breeze of the looming fall. The worn sidewalk is cracked in various places, but isn't uneven to the point of discomfort. Bicycles lean against trees thats leaves are turning brown at the soft edges, and cars are parked in various places, and in numerous ways. Dean thinks it's strange, how it's all so uneven, and cracked, and even so, the sun shines in a magnificent way that illuminates everything perfectly. The light bounces off the hood of the cars and into the glass windows of the buildings, creating soft rainbows between the glass. It's weird, and boisterous, and Dean feels a tad bit apprehensive, but when Jo finally says "over here!" in a loud tone that might shake the world anywhere else, he just follows with a slight laugh, because he's sure that this place hasn't even noticed.

The house is yellow, that's for sure, but it's not yellow; not the type of yellow that construction men wear to get attention, or the kind that says CAUTION in words quieter than the color. It doesn't scream at you when you look. It's a mix of pastel porcelain and sunbathed orange, creating a small hue that reminds him of lemons and cream. It's soft, and almost comfortinG. The shutters are white, crisply painted at the edges, with ridges that run horizontally. The steps aren't perfect, but they feel solid underneath his weight, and he hears a chime as the wind blows past him. Above him, delicately carved glass bumblebees float above his head, gleaming and bouncing off delicate rainbows. He runs his hand along the white banister, and notices a droplet feeder with clear liquid. Soft colored flowers linger in pots and in a small garden below, shades of pink, purple, and orange blooming in petals like a morning sky. It's calming to the point of confusion, almost emasculating, but at the same time, Dean doesn't really mind.

Jo rings the doorbell, and Dean almost laughs out loud as the tune of Clair De Lune plays for a good ten seconds. He also doesn't miss the sideways glance he gets from his younger cousin, as his head perks up.

The door swings open, and a man with hair the color of ashen trees opens the door, his skin olive and flushed. He tilts his head, and Dean watches as his messy locks move along with his head. His pale lips turn up into a small smile, and soft crinkles rest around his sapphire like eyes.

"Hello, Dean."

And boy, Dean never thought his name could sound so much like a musical symphony, and yet, here he is.


End file.
